


I Am Not Over You, Can I Get Back Under

by CaffeineChic



Series: Domesticated Sexay [11]
Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 10:03:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2224929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaffeineChic/pseuds/CaffeineChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Moving all my fic to one place - originally posted 2008</p>
    </blockquote>





	I Am Not Over You, Can I Get Back Under

**Author's Note:**

> Moving all my fic to one place - originally posted 2008

I Am Not Over You, Can I Get Back Under

* * *

"Nooo Bill." She was practically whining, hardly becoming of a President "Don't make me get up yet, 5 more minutes." A rare morning when her longing to lie with him (which was constant) so thoroughly quashed her submission to responsibilities.   
  
"We have to go see Cottle." He sounded no more thrilled at the prospect of rising than she.   
  
She was sleepy and giddy, all woman, no work. She crawled on top of him, the length of her body pressed tight against him, as she pushed herself up on her arms (she could find strength when she had to) and looked down into his face. His hands braced her hips (always aiding her balance).  
  
"Call him and tell him we're busy."  
  
"Are we?" He sounded youthful, full of boyish exuberance and optimism. Her mouth was a smile, was a laugh, was a smile again, was a kiss placed on his. Open mouthed, no room for air, or questions, or protests, only for tongues and for teeth and for lips.  
  
He surged up against her, hands finding purchase on her back, flipping them over gently so that she lay back against the pillows, the kiss never breaking. She gripped the back of his head, losing her fingers in his coarse hair (growing as hers was falling out and she wonder fleetingly if he was keeping them balanced) as she pulled him impossibly closer. Her tongue spelled out her intentions (her wants, her desires) against his, her hips already rocking a slow (but determined) rhythm into his.   
  
His hand meandered down her body, sojourning only briefly in places he had ventured before, maintaining a luxurious pace to a new destination. He reached the waistband of her shorts (his shorts, his tanks, her body) and slipped his hand under, between her legs, between skin and underwear, between her folds.   
  
"Gods, Bill" Her voice was a honeyed whisper of pleasure (and surprise, he was more daring in these moments sometimes than she expected). Her hands lost their grip on him, reached back, over her head in a desperate search for something to hold on to as his fingers mapped out new territory. He was a pilot, a solider, an explorer.   
  
Blood pounded in her ears, the heat in her body building and building (an inferno), her body arching (to him to him to always him). His mouth was on hers again, kissing her slowly, an aching counterpoint to the tempo that his hand was setting. Her knees bending, pushing apart, her hips rocking (and rocking and rocking).  
  
The pounding became louder, outside of her ears: the hatch. The frakking _hatch_. She couldn't think. He wasn't stopping. A moan, his name or something less coherent. If he heard the knocking he gave no indication that he cared, his lips lowering to attack the hollow of her throat, the column of her neck, the underside of her jaw. His fingers never ceasing, never pausing. She was so close. She just needed that final push. Her mind wasn't working. _Stop frakking knocking! We're not in. We've moved. Get your own Admiral, this one's in use!_  
  
"The hatch." She might have said it, she might have thought it, she might have tried and failed at both.  
  
His mouth trailed up to her ear to murmur words like a secret password that shot right through her. "You can..." He hit just the right spot "...airlock" She gasped, and bit down hard sohardsohard on her lip to keep from crying out. "...whoever’s on the other side of that frakking hatch."  
  
"Oh Gods." She was lostlostlost. Blinded by the novas bursting behind her eyes.   
  
When finally her vision returned (a second, a minute, an hour later, she couldn't tell, she didn't care), she caught his eyes with hers, and giggled, crinkling her nose at him adorably (adoringly). He chuckled and kissed her again. They were both still dressed yet she felt more naked, more open, more exposed to him in that moment than she had ever felt (not just with him).   
  
Another knock at the hatch.   
  
"When we get to Earth we're not giving anyone our address."


End file.
